29.6.11

We've tried to mend split shins with feathers and gold dust. We've pushed the one-wheeled limousine to the cobblers. We drank pitchers of Shrapnel & Lace in honour of our Father of the Cloven Hoof. Yet remains the outcome of our efforts, the fruit of our prime-time pranks: trauma for all, shrinks.

13.6.11

We have initiated the process, of dissolution. Of cannon-bearing. We omit the violence that lurks behind the the thin walls. Waiting for the slightest provocation to come barreling in. We are building up to another moment in the sun, always building to that. We do not don uniforms to suit our vagaries. This is not a scam. We are evangelists for carnality. We are blood-drenched mothers and fathers.